


As Far as the Eye Can See

by coffeeandcas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, sleepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: We could head to the coast.Get away for a while.Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn't it? Life is too short.Do what pleases you while you can.When Jaskier suggested leaving for the coast and getting away for a while, he never thought Geralt would actually say yes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 490





	As Far as the Eye Can See

When Jaskier wakes up naked in Geralt’s arms, it’s such a surprise that he dismisses it immediately as the remnants of a wild dream, closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. 

But when he wakes again a few hours later and he’s _still_ naked in the witcher’s tight embrace, he begins to think that something might be up. While their friendship is undoubtedly unusual, this isn’t the sort of thing they partake in on a regular occurrence. Or any occurrence at all, come to think of it, no matter how many times Jaskier might have imagined waking up in exactly this way. He twists his head, getting a faceful of straggly white hair that smells strongly of sea water and dirty horse, and discerns that Geralt is still fast asleep. The snoring is a bit of a giveaway. 

He wriggles, trying to free himself, but the admirably muscled arms tighten reflexively around him and he stills, slightly put out. What if he needed to get up for some reason? He doesn’t have to wake Geralt, as this situation could turn out to be all kinds of awkward, especially as he has no memory at all of how he wound up here. At least Geralt is clothed, that’s one thing. Well, from the waist down, at least. The firm chest is pressed up against his back, Geralt’s skin furnace-warm, and he presses back just for a fraction of a second just to keep warm he tells himself. It feels nice, skin on skin. It’s been a long time since he was held this way, since he was the smaller person in the embrace. It makes him miss being with men, and it makes him wish just a little more that Geralt was as intrigued by him as he is by the witcher. 

He isn’t fool enough to think himself in love, not with Geralt. It would be masochistic, at best. He falls a little in love with everyone he has an affair with, and in truth he has a small amount reserved for his travel companion. But to think that Geralt might return it is surely foolish, since no signs at all have been shown to reinforce that thought. Have they?

But this, the situation he’s found himself in upon waking? This is new, intriguing, and if the way Geralt pushes his face into Jaskier’s neck with a low sigh means anything, it could be that Jaskier has got it all a little bit wrong about how his companion sees him…

*

Geralt didn’t actually say yes when Jaskier suggested they take a trip to the coast and get some headspace. What he actually said was, _I’m tired, Jaskier_. But it meant the same thing. 

Later, when everyone had retired to their respective camps, Geralt and Jaskier packed their bags under the starlit sky, saddled Roach, and turned back. Geralt rode, of course, and Jaskier walked but he found he didn’t mind as much as he usually does. The persistent ache in his ankles could be forgotten in the elation of it being just he and Geralt once more, heading somewhere that he had suggested. Geralt was broody and melancholy, mourning the death of their acquaintances, and Jaskier didn’t try to distract him for once. He had seen the devastation in every fibre of Geralt’s being when he couldn’t pull them to safety, and didn’t want to cause any further upset by being irritating - he knows it’s one of his less fine qualities; he doesn’t really go in for quiet and reflective. But Geralt does, and he needs it right now, so Jaskier keeps his mouth shut. Occasionally he’ll strum a low tune on his lute but he doesn’t sing (although it almost kills him). And when he does, Geralt inclines his head and seems to listen, so he does it again a little later.

They make camp twice, eating hares and squirrels that Geralt had snared and skinned while Jaskier looked away. He prefers not to know where his food comes from, thank you very much. Then on the third day, they see it on the horizon. An endless expanse of blue, meeting the sky so perfectly that it’s almost impossible to tell one from the other. Above them, a seagull calls loudly and Jaskier watches it arc and sway in the salty breeze. They continue through a narrow valley of rocks and scrubland until they come through a narrow gully and Jaskier has to catch his breath for just a second. He’s seen the ocean before, but not in a long time and certainly not like this. The sun had begun its slow descent and by the time they emerge from the rocks it’s almost kissing the horizon, sending a carnival of bloody reds, oranges and pinks cascading across the sky. The clouds are tinted pink. There are stars appearing in the inky blue above them. He turns, hoping Geralt is as affected by the sight as he is, but the witcher’s expression remains blank and emotionless, and he feels his heart sink a little at the sight. He’d hoped that by reaching their destination, Geralt would feel some sense of closure, but it doesn’t seem as though that’s occurred quite yet. 

They build a fire (Geralt does it), pitch a tent (Geralt does it), then a quick discussion about dinner ensues. Fish, Jaskier wants, since they’re right by a huge body of water and he can smell it in the air. No, Geralt tells him, they won’t catch any fish this close to shore. They’ve made camp on a small sandy stretch, far enough in that the tide won’t touch it, backed by some rocks and an almost sheer cliff face with steps cut into it, steps that wrap around a peculiarly shaped rock and hang out over the water for a distance. In the daytime, it might be fun to jump off those steps into the ocean, but tonight the water will be icy cold and Jaskier shivers at the thought. 

“But I don’t _want_ hare again.” He can hear himself whining, but he really doesn’t want to eat hare for a third night running. “I’m sick of hare. There must be something else.”

“Alright.” Geralt pokes at the fire with a piece of dry driftwood, then throws it on and sparks shower everywhere, lighting up their faces for the briefest of moments. “Find us something else.”

“You know hunting isn’t exactly within my skill set. If you could just-”

“And what is your skill set, beyond giving everyone a headache with that incessant warbling?” Geralt snaps in response and Jaskier sits up straight, stung. The barb seems to have come from nowhere, and by the way Geralt is glowering into the flames it seems like he meant it. At least in the heat of the moment. He’s hurting and guilt-ridden, but Jaskier has had enough. He’s not done anything to warrant Geralt’s ire beyond try to help him, and this is the thanks he gets?

“Oh, thanks very much!” Fed up, Jaskier stands up and fixes Geralt with a glare. “You find dinner. Whatever you want. I’ll starve.”

“Look, Jaskier...”

But he doesn’t listen. He stomps off in what could definitely be construed as a huff, and climbs back up the rough steps cut into the rock until he’s halfway up the cliff. Finding a little ledge, he sits down cross-legged and stares down at the ocean below, maybe twenty feet from where he sits. Irritably, he realises he’s left his lute at camp with Geralt but that doesn’t stop him humming an angry tune under his breath. He sulks there for a while, watching Geralt tend to the fire below them, but soon becomes bored and restless and climbs to his feet to begin his descent. His rumbling stomach only encourages him. He can deal with Geralt’s bad mood when he’s eaten.

He’s about halfway down when his foot catches in a gully and he stumbles, reaching for the moss-covered rock and crying out in shock. He hears Geralt call his name, then before he can steady himself, the rock beneath his feet cracks, crumbles, then he’s falling quickly, far too quickly, towards the water below him. 

He doesn’t remember much after that.

*

“Geralt.” He whispers it at first, still not entirely convinced this isn’t some peculiar dream. Then, when the witcher doesn’t move a muscle, he tries again, a bit louder. Then again, louder still. Then he attempts to turn around in the pleasant but utterly strange embrace, and stills in shock. 

He’d thought Geralt clothed beneath the waist. But as the witcher grunts in his sleep and pulls Jaskier just a little closer, he realises that only a thin layer of blanket was separating them, that Geralt is nude also. And that he...

“Oh...” Jaskier’s eyes widen in the dark and he goes as still as a deer. Geralt isn’t just nude under the blankets. He’s...

A low exhalation accompanies a lazy hip thrust and Geralt does something that can only be described as snuggling closer, burying his face in Jaskier’s hair, still asleep. Now Jaskier has another problem. If he wakes Geralt, which he should, it’ll put them both in the embarrassing position of having to deal with this, which he can’t picture going well. If he doesn’t wake Geralt, well, he’s not sure exactly what will happen but he knows he can’t let it. But to his own surprise and chagrin, as Geralt moves a little against his back, sighing in pleasure as his erect cock pushes into the gap between Jaskier’s thighs, his own body begins to respond. Fuck. While he’s had plenty of wild dreams about exactly this and, under any other circumstances, definitely wouldn’t turn down Geralt’s advances, he needs to wake the witcher. Geralt will probably be mortified, but he’ll just have to handle that. 

And also, he wants an explanation as to why the hell they’re both naked in their makeshift bed together. 

“Geralt. Geralt!” He takes hold of one strong hand, which is currently resting on his own bare abdomen, and tugs. “Wake up.”

He finally sees his clothes hung outside the tent’s entrance on a makeshift hanger made out of sticks near the glowing embers of the fire, along with Geralt’s. He frowns, confused. Why can’t he remember this? It’s still dark, and through a gap in the tent flap he can see stars scattered across the sky. The sound of the ocean is calling, rhythmic, the waves building as they approach the shore then crashing onto the sand and dispersing, then retreating only to do it all over again. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s low, sleepy tone sounds in his ear and he turns so the witcher’s face is only inches from his own. “Are you alright?”

“Yes...” he says slowly, still hyper aware of the feeling of Geralt’s cock pushing insistently between his thighs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You don’t remember?” Geralt hasn’t moved, not an inch, and Jaskier wonders if he’s even noticed their current predicament. Then he wonders what he should be remembering and feels a pang of concern. 

“No. Why?” 

“You fell off the stone steps.” Geralt says, and his voice is so carefully devoid of emotion that it makes Jaskier wonder if he’s actually hiding something. He very badly wants to know what. “Not far, and only into the water. But it was freezing, and I needed to get you dry and warm.” He still hasn’t moved, hasn’t released his hold on Jaskier, and the heat between them seems to amp up a notch. “Body heat is the best way to warm someone up and prevent hypothermia.”

“I know,” Jaskier murmurs and he does know. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is this, here, now. 

“You don’t mind?” Geralt’s voice is an octave lower than normal and the question seems double-edged. Is he asking if Jaskier minds what he did to look after him, or is he asking something entirely different? Especially as his arm seems to tighten around Jaskier’s waist as he asks. The possibility that his feelings might be returned is rearing its head but he doesn’t dare to hope. 

“No.” His own voice comes out huskier than he intended. Geralt’s amber eyes seem to glow in the light from the fire and he swallows, the air suddenly thick and loaded between them. They’re so close that Geralt’s hair is brushing Jaskier’s forehead. “I don’t mind.”

“Good,” says Geralt, then he kisses him and it’s as though the world around them stops turning and sparks light up behind Jaskier’s closed eyelids. The kiss goes on and on, then Geralt is mouthing at his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, and Jaskier is gripping the hands holding him, so tightly that his nails must surely be leaving crescent-moon indents in the tanned skin. 

He’s pushed to lie back on his side again, then a hand moves down his body to grasp his growing erection and he groans, pushing back against Geralt and feeling the witcher’s hard cock slide between his thighs then pull back. Then push forward again, then back, then Geralt is thrusting between his legs and stroking Jaskier at the same time and it’s _incredible_ , everything he’d ever dreamed of and more. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the euphoria of finally being together. 

Pleasure ricochets through him and he’s moaning in a way he never thought he could, pressing back into Geralt’s embrace. He fleetingly wonders how they got here, and if Geralt has harboured the same desires as he has all this time, but then the grip around his cock tightens and skilled fingers twist at the head and he’s coming, hard, crying out as Geralt’s other arm tightens around his shoulders. Hot kisses are pressed into his hair, then with one final deep thrust he feels wetness spill between his legs as Geralt bites out a quiet groan and sinks his teeth possessively into the muscle of Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Cleanup is quick and hurried, Jaskier lying panting while Geralt uses a shirt soaked in sea water to wipe them both down, then they’re lying back in each other’s embrace, the tent flap open as they watch the waves meet the sand. Jaskier has his head tucked under Geralt’s chin, head resting on his chest, as surprisingly gentle hands stroke his back and shoulders. The heat of their bodies keeps them both warm and Jaskier wonders silently exactly what happened when he went pitching off the cliff into the water. Did Geralt panic? Or did he roll his eyes and haul Jaskier to safety, cursing him under his breath?

He hopes it’s the first one.

The next morning they pack up slowly, eating the remains of the hare that Geralt had caught, cooked, but never quite managed to eat the night before. They sit closer together than usual, and at one point during the sparse meal, one of Geralt’s hands finds its way onto Jaskier’s thigh. It’s intimate in a sweet, quiet way and Jaskier’s heart beats just a little faster at the gesture. The tide is out and they walk down the shore together for a while, hands brushing occasionally, then retrace their steps and watch their footprints in the sand as they wash away. 

“Where shall we go?” Jaskier asks him as Geralt tightens the straps on Roach’s saddle and he strums his lute, a new tune slowly coming to mind. Something joyful and romantic, something he wants to keep private, just for himself. Maybe Geralt too, one day. Amber eyes turn to regard him for a moment then Geralt smiles.

“Anywhere you like.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work and want writing updates, follow me on Twitter [@coffeeandcas](https://twitter.com/coffeeandcas)


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